The foundations of a fable,
tucked in a hotel fold?
Are the functions of a child
not too wild to get old?
Is the playground
that the sheets make
when our teeth break out
good mornings,
the residue
of freedom folly
nonsense laughter
glory?
Is the monster of my story,
a little gremlin who meets day
with a couple early noises,
asking if the beast can stay.
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